The PR Machine: How Politicians Are Repackaged and Sold to You

Recently, while scrolling through social media, I kept seeing the same video: Bong Go standing by a sidewalk vendor, buying balut and fishballs, laughing with passersby, and paying for everyone’s food. A few swipes later, he was on a motorcycle again—stopping to chat with street vendors, handing out snacks, posing for photos with his familiar grin (TikTok, Instagram).

At first glance, it looks simple. A senator sharing street food with ordinary people. But the more you see it, the more it feels rehearsed. Same angles. Same captions about malasakit. Same crowd reactions. Always a camera nearby.

What looks candid is built for the lens.

Every post fits the same story—humility, connection, service—repeated until it feels true. Official pages and friendly outlets push it everywhere, each upload polishing the same image of compassion (Facebook, PageOne.ph).

This is what a PR move looks like when it’s done well.

The Machine Behind the Smile

Behind every photo op is an entire industry—one most people never see.

Political image-making doesn’t rely on loyal volunteers or genuine supporters. The real work happens in boardrooms and studios, managed by professionals who build personas for a living.

In big campaigns, these teams can number in the hundreds. They handle everything—message development, media training, crisis control, social media strategy, and even how a candidate should laugh or wave. Their goal is simple: erase what’s inconvenient, exaggerate what’s flattering, and make you believe the performance (Public Integrity, PR24x7).

The price tag explains why only the powerful can play this game. Political consulting fees range from ₱300,000 to over ₱3 million per month, depending on the scale and position being sought. In the U.S., national campaigns can exceed $1 million monthly just for consultants alone (Sutton Smart, Consulting Success).

Spin doctors specialize in rewriting reality. When a scandal hits, they don’t deny—it’s subtler than that. They redirect, soften, or reframe. A corruption case becomes “political persecution.” A plunder charge turns into “proof of being targeted for helping the poor.” They flood the airwaves and social feeds until people start repeating the excuse as if it’s truth (Kalyan Chandra).

Then there are image consultants—the stylists of politics. They decide how a politician should stand, speak, smile, and dress. They even adjust colors and lighting to evoke warmth or authority. Every movement is rehearsed because voters don’t just listen—they watch. And in the age of social media, a well-timed smile can travel faster than a policy paper (London Image Institute).

Opposition researchers work in the shadows. Their task is to dig up dirt on opponents while burying their own candidate’s skeletons. They comb through speeches, contracts, and social posts—anything that can be twisted into a weapon. It’s not about truth. It’s about leverage (The Campaign Workshop).

And then comes the digital front line—the troll armies and meme factories. In 2016, Rodrigo Duterte’s campaign reportedly paid about $200,000 to hire 400 to 500 “cyber troops” who flooded social media with praise, defended him in comment sections, and attacked critics. Each troll earned between ₱500 and ₱3,000 per day operating fake accounts across platforms (Oxford Internet Institute, PhilStar).

Some operations have gone global. Reports suggest that Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. sought the help of Cambridge Analytica to polish the Marcos family’s online image and erase reminders of the dictatorship’s abuses (Al Jazeera, Nation Thailand).

When you line up all these moving parts—the consultants, stylists, strategists, and trolls—it’s hard not to see politics for what it has become: a billion-peso production.

And every post, every speech, every “candid” photo is part of the script.

How They Bend Your Feed

Every image, headline, and quote you see from a politician goes through testing long before it reaches your screen.

Consultants run focus groups to find the right words—phrases that sound comforting, strong, or safe. They use dial testing, where participants turn knobs in real time while watching campaign ads to show what triggers emotion. From there, speeches and slogans are adjusted until every line lands the way it’s supposed to (Core.ac.uk, Dialsmith).

It’s not instinct. It’s data.

Framing is where the real manipulation happens. A headline can turn a plunder case into a redemption story. A policy failure becomes a “misunderstanding.” Even a human rights violation can be recast as “maintaining order during difficult times.” The facts stay the same, but the emotion shifts—and that’s what people remember (Eustochos).

Then comes the storytelling. Every campaign builds a character arc. Some are cast as heroes fighting a corrupt system. Others take the role of victims “targeted” by political enemies. There are comeback stories, redemption plots, and family legacies sold as destiny. The story works because people love emotion more than evidence. It makes us root for a character instead of checking their record (Journal LSPR).

The Marcos family’s digital rebrand is the perfect case study. Years of coordinated propaganda turned the memory of dictatorship into nostalgia. They flooded social media with videos claiming that the martial law years were peaceful and prosperous. One clip denying any arrests during that era gained over 187 million views, while another accusing human rights victims of “faking stories for money” reached 89 million (Al Jazeera, Wikipedia).

The goal was never truth—it was repetition. Say a lie often enough, and it begins to sound familiar.

Image control covers the visuals. Every “candid” shot of a politician comforting a flood victim or eating with a tricycle driver is staged. Photographers take thousands of frames, and consultants pick the handful that look “authentic” enough to post. Nothing is left to chance—from the lighting to the shirt color to the angle of the smile (London Image Institute, SCU Ethics Center).

It’s called performing authenticity. A strange skill where being genuine becomes an act. Politicians practice casual gestures, rehearse empathy, and even choreograph their silence. Every pause, every joke, every tear is part of a training module somewhere (The Conversation).

And when a scandal breaks, there’s a playbook. First, deny. Then minimize. If that doesn’t work, change the topic. Flood the news with noise until the issue fades. Issue a statement that “expresses regret” without admitting guilt. Most people forget by next week anyway (Determ).

Online, the show never stops. Troll farms manufacture “public support” with fake accounts, fake rallies, and fake comments. They even stage small events with paid attendees to make it seem like the crowd loves their candidate. It’s astroturfing—a simulation of popularity built on money, not conviction (Sutton Smart, Wikipedia).

In the Philippines, this strategy has gone industrial. Trolls and influencers are paid to amplify hashtags, attack critics, and flood timelines with choreographed praise. A 2022 study found that up to half of all accounts engaging in political conversations here were fake—an astonishing scale compared to the global average of just 7 to 10 percent (Reuters).

It’s a constant feedback loop: fake stories create real reactions, which feed new headlines, which generate more engagement—and the cycle never ends.

That’s how your feed becomes the battlefield.

Not through censorship, but through saturation.

The Money Trail

Follow the money, and you’ll see how deep the illusion runs.

The cost of manufacturing a political image isn’t just high—it’s hidden. In countries like the United States, dark money reached a record $1.9 billion in 2024, most of it spent by organizations that never disclose who funds them (Brennan Center). The money moves through shell companies and nonprofits designed to hide their original source, allowing private interests to bankroll candidates without anyone knowing whose favor they’ll owe later (OpenSecrets).

The same problem exists here, only quieter. Campaign finance rules look strict on paper but weak in practice. Donations often pass through “informal” channels, while actual spending goes untracked. The Commission on Elections releases reports, but the numbers rarely match what we see on the ground. One case study estimated that millions were spent on troll networks and social media ads during the 2016 elections, yet only a fraction appeared in official disclosures (NAMFREL, Inquirer).

Consulting alone costs millions. A local campaign can spend ₱30 million just on branding and strategy, while national candidates pour hundreds of millions into consulting firms, media buys, and social amplification (Sutton Smart). Crisis managers charge up to ₱1.4 million a month, digital consultants another ₱800,000, and fundraising teams take a percentage of every peso they raise (Consulting Success).

Media buying eats the biggest share. In U.S. elections, advertising consultants took home over $1.2 billion in one campaign cycle, while direct mail consultants billed another $298 million (Public Integrity). The same playbook plays out here, just in smaller currency. A PCIJ report showed that eight senatorial candidates collectively spent at least ₱1 billion on TV and radio ads during a single campaign season (PCIJ).

When the cameras roll, someone’s paying for every second of airtime, every boosted post, every “organic” comment.

And here’s the part that turns the stomach—some of that money comes from corruption itself.

Stolen public funds are often recycled into PR operations that keep the same people in power. A fraction of the loot goes into ad buys, influencer partnerships, and troll payrolls, all designed to protect what’s left of their image. It’s a self-feeding system: corruption funds propaganda, propaganda protects corruption, and the cycle repeats (Brennan Center).

Every polished press release and campaign poster costs something. And in many cases, the bill is quietly charged to the same people being fooled—the taxpayers.

Philippine Case Studies: The Formula in Action

You don’t have to look far to see how the PR machine works in the Philippines. The country has become a living case study in how image-making can erase history and turn power into myth.

The most striking example is the Marcos family’s rebrand. Ferdinand Marcos Sr. ruled under martial law from 1972 to 1981, a period marked by arrests, torture, and the theft of an estimated $5 to $10 billion in public funds. He died in exile after being ousted in 1986—but decades later, his son would win the presidency in a landslide.

That comeback wasn’t an accident. It was the product of years of coordinated image work. Pro-Marcos content began circulating as early as the 2000s, but the digital blitz took off around 2016. Facebook pages, YouTube channels, and TikTok accounts flooded feeds with nostalgia for a so-called “golden age.” They claimed there were no arrests during martial law and that victims fabricated their stories for money. Some of these videos reached hundreds of millions of views (Al Jazeera, Wikipedia).

The effort wasn’t random. Studies found that much of the disinformation came directly from coordinated online networks, many tied to influencers paid to seed authoritarian nostalgia. Fact-checkers couldn’t keep up with the flood of false claims. A professor from the University of the Philippines described it as “a well-oiled machine” that had been building for years (Fulcrum, Reuters).

What sealed the rebrand was government validation. In 2016, Rodrigo Duterte allowed Marcos Sr. to be buried at the Libingan ng mga Bayani. That single act reframed a dictator as a hero and gave legitimacy to the online narrative that followed. It blurred memory. It made revisionism feel official (Al Jazeera).

Then there’s Duterte himself. For a man who spent decades as mayor of Davao City, he somehow convinced the country he was an outsider—a man of the people fighting the establishment. His campaign built that identity through raw language, viral videos, and an online army paid to amplify every sound bite.

According to the Oxford Internet Institute, his 2016 campaign hired about 400 to 500 online operators for $200,000. Their job was to flood social media with praise, harass critics, and make him look unstoppable. Many of them kept their positions long after he took office. Some were even rewarded with government posts (Oxford Internet Institute, PhilStar).

The results were obvious. Every major policy—no matter how violent or divisive—came with online support ready to drown out dissent. When Duterte faced international scrutiny for the drug war, the same troll networks mobilized again, this time to frame him as a patriot under attack. Analysis found that roughly half of the accounts defending him online were fake. In a country where truth already struggles to compete with noise, that number says everything (Reuters).

These operations aren’t isolated. They’re connected by money, consultants, and strategy. One politician’s success becomes another’s blueprint.

And while the faces change, the machinery doesn’t.

How to Spot the Manipulation

Once you know what to look for, the patterns stop being invisible.

Start with the “authentic” moments. A senator eating street food, a president sampling local food, or a mayor greeting vendors—all framed perfectly for the camera. These scenes are designed to look simple, but everything about them is deliberate.

Senator Bong Go’s team, for example, regularly posts clips of him eating balot and barbecue in Mandaluyong or Pasay. Each video is crisp, timed for maximum visibility, and always paired with hashtags like #Malasakit or #ParaSaMasa (TikTok, Instagram, Facebook). President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. has also been photographed at food fairs, sampling local delicacies with the same crowd shots and patriotic messaging about Filipino pride (YouTube, Bob Reyes).

These images feel casual but are designed for emotional branding. When you see them too often, ask who took the photo—and who benefits from it. Real service doesn’t rely on the perfect angle or quick upload.

Astroturfing is harder to spot but even more powerful. In 2025, researchers found that nearly half of election-related conversations in Philippine social media came from fake or paid accounts. These profiles post in synchronized bursts, echo each other’s content, and drown out genuine discussion (Reuters, Cyabra). When former President Duterte faced ICC charges, fake networks pushed hashtags calling his transfer “illegal,” complete with identical captions and cloned profiles that interacted with real users to appear legitimate (Al Jazeera).

That’s the swarm effect—a flood of coordination disguised as conversation.

Language matters, too. Politicians under fire often rely on the same recycled lines: mistakes were made, the issue is being looked into, we welcome lifestyle checks. These phrases sound accountable but never commit to truth. You’ll hear them whenever corruption probes heat up, like during the 2025 flood control scandal, when nearly every senator or spokesperson used the same phrases on air (GMA News).

Then there’s the subtler form—what I call reputation recovery through reform.

Senator Chiz Escudero’s anti-corruption campaign fits that mold. Right after being linked to the same infrastructure controversy he denounced, he delivered fiery privilege speeches against House Speaker Martin Romualdez and filed new reform bills: the Infrastructure Appropriations Integrity Act, an Anti-Nepotism in Contracts bill, and a proposal for officials to waive bank secrecy. These bills sound progressive, but their timing, media coverage, and repetition in friendly outlets also serve a second purpose—image rehabilitation (Manila Standard, PhilStar, Inquirer).

Even “grassroots” movements online need scrutiny. During the 2025 elections, new influencer pages emerged overnight to praise administration projects and parrot official hashtags. Some were food vloggers or lifestyle TikTokers suddenly discussing national policy. That’s paid influence—ordinary-looking content funded to sell political trust (Fulcrum).

The trick is to spot repetition. Check if the language, hashtags, or visuals line up too neatly across pages that don’t normally talk politics. Look at account age, posting frequency, and who amplifies what.

And always follow the money. Social media ad reports often list “boosted grassroots” or “community engagement services” as generic expenses. In reality, those line items pay for amplification—turning political messages into “organic” posts shared by hundreds of pages at once (Inquirer, Respicio.ph).

So the next time you see a smiling politician eating street food, a “viral” slogan trending overnight, or a sudden wave of reform bills after a scandal—pause.

Ask who benefits from the story being told.

Because manipulation doesn’t always come dressed as deceit. Sometimes, it wears sincerity too well.

How We Start Forgetting

We don’t lose truth in a single moment. It erodes, little by little, the way a river shapes the land it touches.

Every headline, every image, every slogan is a drop. Soft on its own, relentless together. They keep flowing, day after day, carving the public mind the way water wears down stone. What once looked solid begins to bend.

That’s how forgetting begins.

When a politician accused of wrongdoing keeps appearing in cheerful videos and goodwill tours, public anger doesn’t vanish—it gets washed away. The same current that once carried outrage now smooths it over until what used to feel wrong begins to feel acceptable.

It doesn’t happen because people are careless. It happens because the current never stops. Every upload, every sound bite, every polished post adds to the flow. The river keeps running even when no one’s watching.

While we scroll, it moves beneath us—quiet, patient, and steady. The ground changes shape without us noticing.

The money poured into this machinery could have built schools or hospitals, but instead it feeds the current that keeps reputations afloat. It floods timelines, drowns nuance, and leaves only what the operators want to survive.

That’s how we start forgetting—not through chaos, but through the slow and constant pull of the stream.

Truth doesn’t break. It’s worn down, carried away piece by piece, until the river of propaganda redraws the map.

The Resistance: What You Can Do

The machinery feels massive, but it depends on one thing—our attention.

Every click, every share, every moment we look without questioning feeds it. The first step to resisting isn’t grand. It’s a pause.

Before sharing, ask: Who benefits from this? Who paid for it? Why am I seeing it now? That small act of curiosity breaks the illusion faster than any debate online.

Read beyond headlines. Verify before reacting. Support the reporters and watchdogs who still tell the story straight, even when it costs them followers or funding. They’re the ones keeping the lights on in a room that many would rather keep dark.

Talk to people. Not in arguments, but in questions. Awareness spreads better through calm conversation than through shouting.

And when election season returns, choose quietly but wisely. Look for leaders who serve without spectacle, whose actions don’t need hashtags to look sincere.

The PR machine survives on repetition and distraction. When you stop playing along, it loses its rhythm.

Awareness isn’t loud. It’s steady. It’s the decision to stay alert when the noise tells you to fall asleep.

So here’s something we can all do starting today: pay attention. Observe your feeds, your news timelines, your group chats. Watch how politicians present themselves—and how others help them do it.

If you notice something that feels staged or calculated, leave a comment below. Tell us who, tell us how. Let’s start recognizing the patterns together.

Because the more we learn to spot the moves, the harder it becomes for anyone to sell us a lie.